


Close Quarters

by cptnbvcks



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Dom!Mando, F/M, Mild Somnophilia, Size Kink, Slapping, just a long fic of dick i guess, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptnbvcks/pseuds/cptnbvcks
Summary: An invitation for the Mandalorian to lay down with you turns into a very interesting night.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 523





	Close Quarters

The Razor Crest wasn’t built with comfort in mind.

In fact, it wasn’t built for comfort at all.

You don’t think the old gunship was ever meant to make a home for anyone, and it had surprised you that the Mandalorian had ever even taken the liberty to wedge a cot in what you assumed may have been a storage closet.

Truthfully, it wouldn’t have shocked you if he had just told you that he slept standing upright with his rifle propping him up — if he ever slept at all.

Still, it softened you to know that he still scrounged up what few small comforts he could manage — the thread bare blanket made of the same material as his cloak (in fact, you were half sure that it _was_ an old cloak, one that had grown too shorn from use), and the lumpy roll that was meant to be a pillow.

It wasn’t much, and you kept your teasing to yourself the first night that you had crawled into the cramped quarters.

He hadn’t joined you then, not after coming down from the cockpit to see why the ship had suddenly fallen quiet, only to find that you had made yourself cozy in his cot with the little green terror sleeping in the protective space of your curled body and the metal wall.

The sight alone was more comforting than the bedding had ever been, and for a moment the Mandalorian wondered if he could set aside a few of the spare credits he still had to switch the durable stretched canvas for something a little softer.

The space was not made for two; hardly even _one_. Yet still, you were determined to make this work. 

“It won’t work,” Mando cut in, his voice low and hazy, crackling as the modulator processed the vowels of his words. He sat at the edge of the narrow cot entrance, broad shoulders slack and his gloved hands resting against his thigh armour. His helmet tilts, following your movements around the belly of the ship as you gather up the cloak-blanket from the Razor Crest’s floor.

Your movements are lumbered and heavy, and you teeter on your heels when you drag the material around your shoulders to brace against the creeping cold of the ship. As naked as you were, the blanket offered little by way of warmth, and even less so in terms of cover.

“And—,” he continues, the words skipping with a hesitation that the modulator picks up and amplifies with spectacular ease. The helmet tilts downward, visor to the wide slit of the fabric that parts with each forward shift of your legs — to the way it parts and frames the flesh of your thighs that still tremble gently in his aftermath, and the blushed and swollen apex between them. “— as much as I want to,” he drags, words weighted, “I need to get back to—”

A grunt tapers his speech as you set a hand against the firm spot of his shoulder, just above his pauldron, and sink into his lap one thigh at a time. He tilts his helmet upwards to your face, despite the urge to do the opposite — to look where he shouldn’t, where you’re most naked for him, to see where the warmth that settles achingly above the crotch of his pants is coming from.

No matter how warm you are, however, he notices the small sharp inhale that puffs out when you settle your thighs on the cold beskar. His gloved hands move of their own accord, seeking to comfort when they settle on your thighs.

Suddenly, making sure the ship exits light speed at the right time is just a footnote that he chooses not to pay attention to.

“Stop talking,” you murmur as you sit, digging the heel of your palm against your eyes as you pull back the hand that had settled on his shoulder to clutch at the cloak that was doing its best to slide right off, “If you’re going to have the audacity to _fuck me_ from this parsec to the next, the least you can do is lay down with me, _shiny._ ”

His hands pause their upward arch over your thighs when you curse. A soft noise follows, catches on the helmet’s modulator and it registers somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. The sound of it makes the edge of your lip twitch with tired amusement.

How many people could say they made a Mandalorian laugh? Better yet, how many people could say they made a Mandalorian laugh because they found the vulgarities that came out of such a pretty mouth absolutely endearing?

Gloved hands slip into the gap of the draped cloak as you lean your torso heavily against his chest, earning only a slight tilt backwards as he bows to your weight. He squeezes your thigh, drags the weight of his spread palm over the expanse of flesh that he knows is _so soft._ Softer than him. Warmer than the beskar.

“It won’t work,” Mando drags out after another moment, his tone surefire in the expectation of your failure despite the softness of his tone. He catches the small vibration of a shiver when he dips his thumbs coyly into the warmth of your inner thighs, a warmth he can feel even through the gloves. He squeezes, brushes his thumbs high enough that you shiver, and then barters, “I can put the blankets on the floor again, if you’d like. Then I could join you—”

“I thought you were too busy to sleep in,” you hum, tilting your chin up a little to pin a defiant look at his helmet.

He tilts his helmet down, the movement flourished and fluid and it makes you swallow at a sudden sense of misplaced nervousness. You know he’s looking you in your eyes, but the lack of visual confirmation makes you shiver.

“I didn’t mean to sleep.”

Oh, that bastard.

You hate when he does that — when he speaks something so outrageously blunt that it dashes every smart response right out of your equally smart mouth and leaves you with nothing but a dumb look on your face. You hate it even more when your body reacts, when his words make your cunt bottom out with _want_.

He keeps looking at you. The helmet doesn’t move, the visor sightlessly watching your expression until you realize that he’s either admiring the blush that’s splotching across your cheeks, or waiting for you to squirm.

Your brain putters out. You squirm.

Even more so when he drags the leather of his hands up to the crook of your thighs and your hips. His thumbs trace figure-eights over the patch of skin between your bellybutton and the soft arch of your mound. He squeezes your hips, lets his fingers spread wide until they meet the spot where the flesh of your ass molds against his thigh plates.

You lift your hips as he pulls you in closer, the movement slow and thoughtless until he sees the way your lips part and your brows furrow when the coarse fabric of his pants drags against your still sensitive folds. You turn your head away, hiding your blushed face against the patch of fabric between his pauldron and helmet.

“Is that what you wanted?” He asks, the helmet still tilted so that his voice and the modulator echo clear in your ear. The words are softly spoken, like he wishes to speak them but he wishes you not to hear, though his voice is deep enough that every syllable hits your ears loudly. At this distance, you pick up the duality of his voice; the one that catches in the modulator, and the other, rougher, that echos beneath the helmet. You don’t know which one makes the muscles tighten all the way from the base of your stomach to that deep spot in your core. “Is that why you didn’t put your clothes back on?”

“Mando—” you begin, the warning of your tired words catching with a quick inhale that follows a firm squeeze of his fingers into your backside. It’s a discomforting noise, a note too deep and brief. Mando notices the change in the knot of your brow that accompanies the sound.

He loosens his grip, but he continues pressing his fingers around, prodding into the muscle and flesh of your ass until he hits a spot that makes your back arch as you pull yourself up and away. You drop your hand to his shoulder again, squeezing hard as you recoil.

“I think I bruised you,” Mando states, the words dragging lazily through the helmet. You don’t miss the note of amusement that perches in his voice and you swear he must be smirking beneath that helmet. You wish you knew what that smirk looked like — just so you can imagine smacking it off his face. “Does that hurt?”

His question is punctuated with another push of his fingers into that patch of plump fat that sits a few inches beneath the back of your hipbone, pressing firm into a spot where his fingers must have dug too deep just hours earlier. Your body jolts at the pressure, at the memory of his thumbs having left those bruises when he gripped your hips from behind and dragged you hard and raw over his cock while your knees scraped uncomfortably over the desk of the Razor Crest.

Your cunt bottoms out again and you smack your hand against his cuirass in protest. The cloak slips on your shoulders until you return your hand to secure it.

“It doesn’t exactly _not_ hurt,” you grouch, knowing full well that the bolts of localized pain were threatening to overcome the sleepiness that was still pulling your limbs heavy, “Not all of us have the convenience of beskar.”

The Mandalorian exhales shortly, a sharp noise of amusement that you hear more clearly with your head this close to his helmet. You lift your head from his shoulder, feeling the accidental brush of your cheek against the side of his helmet.

“Perhaps I should find you some,” he murmurs consideringly, “You would look good in it.”

It’s your turn to let out a tired laugh that devolves into a yawn hidden behind your palm. Mando feels your body shiver deeply, muscles arching with the motion of your heavy inhale. You hum when you recompose yourself, the exhaustion pulling at the edges of the moment, “Maybe next time I’ll steal that big ugly helmet so that you can see what I see.”

His head tilts to the right and you feel the inspection of his gaze. For someone with so little to offer by way of facial expressions, the Mandalorian is very easy to read. When he speaks again, the words drag low and calm, conspiratorial and gently coaxing.

“Would you?”

“I would—” you purr drowsily, leaning your head forward until your forehead meets his helmet, close enough to the thin pane of the visor that you feel his fingers grip warningly at your hips. _Too close,_ his body says. The visor is too dark to see through, but he still worries. Paranoid.

Your eyes fall shut immediately, an exhausted smile playing over your lips when you flick a finger against the side of the beskar helmet with a metal _ting._ The rebound hurts your nail bed more than it hurts the Mandalorian, “—if you ever took the _kriffing_ thing off.”

The Mandalorian only squeezes your thighs in response, knowing that he can’t give you the answer you both want. The banter passes, and the weight of sleep bares down on your eyelids. Your arms move over his shoulders, face nuzzling lazily against the sharp contours of the helmet as you think of the warm cheek that must certainly hide beneath. Even if he can’t feel you there, he tilts his head to the contact.

You’re _so tired_ and you don’t care about the fact that it isn’t his face when you press your lips against the cold metal. You kiss, soft and tentative, and imagine the face beneath, the warm skin that you had only managed to experience via bare hands and an undone zipper. You wanted to say that you had come to terms with the fact that this beskar, all the armour and the helmet and the weapons, it was _him._ It was all you would get. You wanted to say that you didn’t mind, but something about proclaiming such a thing felt a little worse than a lie.

Pushing the thoughts down, you keep kissing until your lips hit the clip of the helmet as it abruptly tapers off to the fabric covering his neck. There’s not even a reprieve of skin there to nestle your mouth against. You tilt your head there, until he feels the humid warmth of your steady breaths against the barrier. Slowly, your eyes drag shut as he draws his hands over the dip of your spine, pressing his palm flat as he holds you tighter.

You’re almost asleep, just like this, until your head violently lolls to one side with a suddenness so jarring that it startles even the Mandalorian. He almost laughs again, and you jam your face back into the crook of his neck despite the threateningly sharp edge of the helmet impeding your movement.

“Lay back,” you command, the words half slurred as you push your weight harder into his chest, pressing him to concede to your wish, “Just for a little while. Don’t make me beg, Mando.”

“But I like the way you sound when you beg,” he hums deeply, that coquettish tone that rumbles deep in his throat ends with an abrupt grunt as you smack an open palm against his cuirass. The Mandalorian relents, raising his hips and securing one arm around your back, drawing you close as he scoots further into the bunk.

You shiver at your body’s instinctive response to his arched hips, to the rough material of his trousers and the solid weight of his cock just beneath it, brushing between your legs. Everything hums like radio static for him, but your head feels nine miles underwater with the way it swims with sleep. The thoughts drift in and out of focus as he leans back, resting the back of his helmet against the rolled pillow.

It’s not very comfortable.

The space is too small, and you don’t think the Mandalorian has ever fit comfortably in here since he was a much younger, smaller man. His pauldrons and the added width of his shoulders hardly allow any horizontal movement of his arms, so the hunter resigns himself to keeping his gloved hands pressed flat across your spine.

You settle into his chest, too exhausted to register the aching tightness of your nipples when he holds your chest against the beskar, the material eternally far too cold no matter how many times your body rubs against it. It doesn’t matter — not when he’s stroking those gloved hands down the span of your back in meaningless patterns.

You’re quiet for a moment, feeling the way his fingertips press and shift idly along your spine and the back of your rib cage. You’re quiet, at least, until you decide to realign your hips and shift your knees, both of which are trapped between the wall and his thighs, to relieve the compression building in your lower back.

Drawing your knees higher, you widen your hips, squat down a little lower and open yourself wider, pausing when you feel that pleasant firm pressure of _him_ between your legs. It’s good there, a steady thrumming of pleasure that lulls you down, down, _down._

“Stop squirming.”

His voice is strained and your mind washes ashore with a brief sense of awakeness, and an even shorter realization that you were rocking your hips achingly slowly against the front of his pants. You barely manage to grumble an unintelligible apology.

“Mando?” You slur.

“Hm?”

“Is that a blaster in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

You’re already drifting off again when he responds with that heavy, lazy voice of his.

“Go to sleep before I lock you in here.”

—

It barely takes you more than three and a half minutes of squirming around ontop of the Mandalorian before sleep drags you under, weighted and heavy as you succumb completely to the exhaustion.

For the Mandalorian, it feels like it could have been three hours.

Even with the beskar, and in spite of the heavy canvas clothing, he felt every soft shift of your body — the plush swell of your breasts flattened up against the beskar chest plate, that unerring warmth lingering between your thighs that put a familiar strain in his cock. It only grew worse when you murmured warmly against his neck.

He shifts his hips, cants them upwards in a naive attempt to get comfortable in such a tight space but the contact only brings your bare cunt down against the bulge tenting his tactical pants. The collision earns a soft huff of breath from your throat, one that soon prompts even _more_ movement.

His helmet drops back against the stretched material of the cot, swallowing down the noise that bubbles in his throat. You shift your knees higher up the sides of his thighs as you cuddle in closer, unintentionally restricting the last bit of space left in these close quarters. Your hips bare down again, realigning themselves as you nestle further into the cloak that had begun to slip down your shoulders. The movement drags your cunt harder over the single barrier preventing him from simply inviting himself into your body — to where he knows you to be softest.

Mando shuts his eyes behind the helmet, trying to recompose himself against the unremitting memory of the way that warm and welcoming heat of your body had strained around him, tight — _so tight —_ and fever hot. He doesn’t think that he’s felt anything so warm and wet around him in _years._

 _“Do you feel that, Mando?” You had moaned out then, the words airy and floating in the heady space between you as you held his fingers to your fevered cunt. He_ had _felt it — slick and wet, his bare fingers had moved smoothly through your folds, over the hardened peak of your clit in the way he had learned made your thighs shake. He had felt, and seen, the glistening trail that bridged the space between the tips of his fingers and your core. He wanted to feel that forever. He wanted to feel it everywhere that his armour wouldn’t allow. “Get me wet like this and you’ll never have to worry about hurting me — not unless I want you to.”_

_Not unless I want you to._

The phrase spun around in his head until he was dizzy and his cock hard at the gentle insinuation, the innocent indications of your darker predilections.

He needed to get out of this.

Orange-tipped fingers twitched against your lower back as he holds your sleep slackened body to his own. Slowly, Mando begins to rotate. Setting his heel on the frame of the cot, he bends his knee and ignores the way you settle further on his hips as he begins to twist around. The movements are a little uncoordinated, peppered with the sound of shifting beskar and effortful grunts that echo both in his helmet and the narrow cubby. The motion disturbs you, your skin hitting colder parts of his armour as he unsettles your comfortable position on his chest. But he persists.

Foresight… was never one of the Mandalorian’s strong suits. He’s a goal oriented man — and his current goal is to get your sleeping body off of his chest so that he doesn’t lose what last thread of logic he’s desperately clinging onto.

He didn’t expect to find his arm fully encumbered beneath your head, the tight space forbidding him enough room to move the appendage up nor back, keeping it awkwardly curled at the elbow as your head lay against the soft inner crook where his arm met his shoulder.

He also didn’t expect the way you rolled off his chest, your body flopping back and wedging itself awkwardly in the small gap between the side of his chest and the steel wall.

The blanket-cloak moves with you, rolling under your back, and suddenly you’re bare before him, laid out and open and _maker’s breath_ he shouldn’t look— he shouldn’t, but there’s a bruise on your collarbone in the shape of four fingers and he remembers gripping you there, using your shoulder as leverage when he fucked you boneless with your face buried in that same cloak he had laid out for your comfort.

You had taken him eagerly, then — and if he had hurt you, if he had preempted his angle and hit you too far, too hard, you had swallowed the discomforts with the pleasures and let him take you.

_Not unless I want you to._

The words echo in his head, out of breath and high with pleasure.

His helmet tilts, following the trail of bruises that have already begun to blossom despite being created by his hands mere hours earlier. There’s a bruise waning violet and encompassing just beneath one of those hardened nipples, pulled taut with the cold ship air, and Mando feels his fingers shift from where they currently lay sprawled over your tummy.

His motions are careful when he raises his hand over your body, allowing the fingers of his trapped hand to pluck free the leather glove covering his other.

You murmur softly in his arms and he pauses, waits until you simmer down again, before settling his bare palm over your stomach. He bites down the soft sigh that threatens to mindlessly fall from his lips.

Your stomach rises and falls slowly beneath his palm and he drags the coarse pad of his thumb over your stomach. He can feel the soft peach fuzz hairs that tickle against the sensitive centre of his hand as he strokes a slow circle over your skin. He inches higher, pausing then just beneath your bruised breast.

He doesn’t touch you beyond that point. No matter how badly he wants to close those final few inches, he keeps his palm firm to your ribcage.

He remembers what gave you that mark. He had pulled you back from the Razor Crest’s floor, fingers digging into your breast without any sense of his own strength and you had cried for him when your exposed back met the cold steel of his armour. The sound that you had made when he buried himself into you that way, the way your body had crumpled in his arms with no strength whatsoever to keep yourself upright while he dragged in and out of your trembling walls. You had been soft in his hands, a delicate thing that had bloomed under a touch that had never once known anything that worthy of care.

He had wanted to kiss you then — to turn your head against his shoulder and taste your mouth on his tongue and swallow the weak little whimpers he fucked out of you. But your lips had settled against his helmet, and all the beskar, and all the things that made him _Mando_ , not the man underneath.

Tilting his head back up, he watches the sleeping contours of your face without worry that you might see through his visor.

He could kiss you now. Just like this.

You would be none the wiser; his morals still in place, and the curiosity satiated. It wouldn’t take much. He knew he could maneuver the helmet with one hand, slip it off, and—

A hard shiver wracks your body cold, raising goosebumps across your stomach and beneath the Mandalorian’s palm as you shift onto your side. He lifts his hand off of you, letting you reposition yourself in the tight space.

You murmur something under your breath, breathy little sleep talk that Mando can’t decipher as you nestle your head into his trapped arm. You roll your hips, pushing yourself back to where it’s arguably warmer, more comfortable — that just so happens to be right up against the erection pressing uncomfortably tight in the Mandalorian’s pants. You shift again, pushing in close until the chin of his helmet brushes against the top of your head.

He needs to calm down.

He needs to move, needs to—

You bare down again, and this time his hand falls back to your hip, gripping down tight as a ragged noise echoes through the modulator. Thoughtlessly, your name follows the tail end of his grunt and his grip on your hip is only for show because he does not stop you when you begin wriggling again.

His discipline shakes unsteadily on its foundations when you shiver against him, the type that shakes all the way from your head to your toes, and the tremor is too similar to the shudder that wracks your body when he forces one too many orgasms out of your already spent pussy. His grip tightens on your hips, torn between stopping you and letting you continue as his fingers slot into old bruises that make you stir restlessly. 

He says your name again, the word ragged and clipping briefly through the helmet as he drops his head against the back of your shoulder. You don’t respond other than a small shiver and another sleepy murmur that muffles into his arm when you turn your head away from his voice to huddle into his side.

The modulator drags his exhales through the air and the Mandalorian doesn’t think when he pulls his hand from your hip, hooks his thumb under the helmet, and frees himself from beneath it.

You shiver again, but it’s not from the cold.

It’s a tickle this time, and then a scratch, and something softer pressing into your shoulder blade. It’s more pleasant than the cold and you hum softly at the contact that presses and parts, warm air settling over all the spots that had been kissed.

Beneath your head, the muscles of an arm shifts and the movement registers in the delicate meandering space between states of consciousness. The arm curls across your shoulders, caging you back against the firmness of an armoured chest as a set of gloved fingers curl to a polite fist beneath the swell of your right breast.

The position holds you firm as the tip of that cold nose drags a line over the contour of your shoulder, drawing into the arch of your neck and behind your ear before nuzzling there.

It’s… nice. Somewhere in your unconscious mind, it registers as _nice._ Different. The _different_ pulls more weight than the _nice_ and you swim through the mental fog to place exactly _why._

You smile drowsily while your thoughts swirl in the limbo between sleep and awake, narrowing sightlessly on the hard press of beskar against the backs of your thighs and something equally as hard and much more appealing pressing into your ass.

Behind you, your bunk-mate jumps, stills, when you slip your hand from its curled position infront of you to find that heavy weight resting between his legs. A breath, hot and humid, rustles your hair as he exhales sharply at the contact. The grip around your shoulders tighten, as does every other muscle in his body when you begin to palm his cock through his pants.

The motions are a little sloppy, uncoordinated with the lingering stupidity of sleep, but you still feel when he rocks his hips to meet your touch and it makes you wonder with a vague concept of time and how long he had been waiting for you to wake up again.

Your palm passes over the clothed tip of his length, and that one gloved fist resting on your ribcage uncurls into an open palm that secures itself tight around your bruised breast. You moan between your lips, the sensation pleasant and unpleasant and it makes your spine arch into the beskar behind you.

You were content to stay like this — to just let your eyes stay closed as you taunted him until he either snapped and fucked you into the cot, or came in his own pants.

Something nuzzles against the side of your head, and there’s something about the contact— the brush of hair or the warmth of skin—

He grunts your name, grunts it the same way he’s always grunted it when you get him this hard and flustered. But it sounds…

_Different._

Lips meet the back of your ear and— and—

_Lips._

Your eyes are open before you can stop yourself and your they burn with the sudden yellow brightness of the ship but it doesn’t register because the first thing you see is the dark sideways T visor of a beskar helmet staring at you.

You wouldn’t call yourself stupid, but the first stupid thought that comes to your sleep-drunk head is _oh my god he’s been decapitated._

_“Mando?”_

You must have sounded a little hysterical, your voice croaking on his name as you begin to lift yourself in a blindly placed panic.

Your panic is only matched by the Mandalorian’s swift damage control, his hand uncurling from your breast and clapping down over your eyes with enough strict force that it brings your head back against his shoulder. Your body tenses, though only for a moment, as your thoughts chase your logic in circles around your head.

It isn’t until he speaks again that your body slackens under his grip.

“Easy.”

His voice rakes deep against your ear, so… _clear._ _Different._ You can hear the breaths he takes before he speaks and the exhale that punctuates the end of his words and you almost whimper at how it makes you ache right through to your chest.

“Easy,” he repeats, dragging the word like he knows you’re savouring every single syllable, “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

His fingers shift as your eyelashes tickle into the warmth of his glove. You turn your head a little, and he presses down with the paranoia that you can still somehow see past his fingers. His breath hits your bare shoulder and you bite your lip at the creep of goosebumps that rises across your skin and pebbles your nipples to a strained peak.

Your voice feels small in your throat, stuttering on your own tongue while you try to pace your breathing. “Your helmet—”

“It’s okay,” Mando stresses and you know it’s something he’s told you countless times before, in every situation, but somehow this time it pours through you like gasoline on a fire that’s currently burning white hot between your bare thighs. _Maker,_ you could listen to him talk for days, but something in his voice tells you that you don’t have days — much less hours. When he speaks again you recognize that the weight of his voice is pulled heavy with _want._ It just sounds so different that it takes a moment for your dreary brain to catch up.

“Just— stay like this,” he grunts, his hips shifting forward and it registers that you had never fucking moved your hand off of his dick, “I’m going to keep my hand over your eyes. You understand?”

God, even with the helmet off he talks like the Mandalorian— which is a silly thought as well, you admit, almost as silly as thinking he had been decapitated when you saw his helmet laying infront of you. He sounds so different without the helmet. The vowels are full, the consonants clear and the octaves of his voice rumble deep in his throat with a human baritone lost within the helmet’s synthetic garble.

It takes a second for you to realize he’s waiting for a response.

“O—okay,” you stutter and you could smack yourself for it. You turn your brain over trying to find something smart to say, something to cut the bracing tension, but he speaks again and suddenly there’s nothing you perceive other than the darkness behind his palm and the voice at your ear.

“Can I touch you?” He punctuates the question with a squeeze of his other hand, the one you had forgotten sitting on your hip until you finally focus specifically on the coarse knots of blaster-calloused fingers and the warm, dry palm dragging a slow, testing path across your navel and lower. You swallow hard, but you manage a quick nod before breathlessly whimpering out: 

“Your pants.Un-undo your pants—”

His hand is off of your stomach and swatting your blindly groping hand away before the request even settles in the air. The sound of his zipper pulling puts an anxious staccato in your heart, the rhythm fluttering faster when you feel the unsettled air of his quick inhale the moment the cold air of the ship meets his skin.

You don’t let him go cold for very long, and the next noise that draws from that mouth of his comes when you wrap your fingers blindly around the tip of his cock. A bead of pre-cum smears wetly against the palm of your hand and you take what little lubrication you can get when you slip your fingers around that familiarly thick shaft and begin working more out of him. The angle is awkward, and your elbow strains while a muscle threatens to knot in your upper arm, but you find a rhythm that makes his grip around your eyes tighten and his breathing hitch.

He feels bigger in the dark, heavier and more rigid in your hand as your motions grow slicker and smoother with every pass of your palm. Your wrist twists on its way down his cock and _by the maker,_ how did you ever allow him to fuck you with this? He barely fit in your hands, even less so at this fucking angle.

 _Small hands._ He had said to you then, in that humble and flippant tone that told you more about his perception of himself than it did about your mousy hands.

His forehead drops heavily against your shoulder and you yip in surprise when his bare hand grabs between your legs, fingers spreading over your cunt until a weak little moan places itself in the back of your throat.

You don’t remember him taking that glove off when you had woken up, but the thought is fleeting when he drags the pad of his middle finger over the slit of your pussy and pushes further.

Your grip on his cock falters because when the Mandalorian touches you— he touches you without fucking regard for your own body’s sensitivities. His fingers are broad and rough and when they swipe up across the hardened peak of your clit you swear to the maker you see every galaxy spark to life in the darkness under his palm.

His pace starts off quick, sweeping fast little circles over your clit until the only point preventing your body from curling into itself is the firm press of his hand over your head, his muscles flexed firm to hold you into his chest. The Mandalorian is not one for the amble of a slow build. He wants to feel— and to feel _everything_ you have to offer him. Not slowly, no. He wants its all at once, to pull the pleasure from you until there’s nothing left to take. It might seem greedy; but men like him and pleasures like this don’t often amicably meet.

So his fingers cut to the chase, fast and rough and pulling your body taut until the only noises that you _do_ manage to make are caught on your unsteady gasps.

He hunches himself lower, offers his arm a greater reach as he drags the length of his middle finger across your clit. Your body jolts in response, hips chasing his fingers as he swirls them against your soaked entrance. He feels your heat there; pulsing and _wet_ and swollen plush velvet that gives with ease at his prodding.

 _Wet enough._ He thinks. But you could be wetter.

He draws his fingers back to your clit and this time it’s not his touch that pulls your attention. It’s his tongue. It’s the bruise he’s sucking into the back of your shoulder, the kisses he’s trailing and the small cracks of his lips scratching into your skin. It’s his hair tickling the side of your neck when he uses the hand over your eyes to angle your head aside. He moans then, and it comes to your attention that he’s been fucking himself into your still hand this entire time.

Shakily, you begin to jerk him off again. His precum coats thick over your fingers and you wonder how fucking long he had been simply… waiting. Waiting for you to come back to your senses? Waiting for you to… what?

“Talk to me— _fu-fuck, Mando, talk to me, talk—,”_ You babble out, the words slurring and repeating in stutters that you don’t even register in your head. The words are whiny and strung out and so desperate that it pulls the words right from the Mandalorian’s mouth.

“Do you remember what you said?” He grunts out, the words breathless and swallowed as your fingers curl into a tight squeeze around his cockhead. He speaks into the flesh at the side of your throat, and you feel the vibration of his voice box right up against the arch of your neck. “Last night?”

“S'a lot of— _a lot of things,”_ You whine out, the notes of your voice growing higher as he presses your cunt open, easily parting your lips with his index finger while maintaining those devastatingly quick, deliberate strokes of his middle directly to your exposed clit. You tug at his cock faster, your movements shallow and repetitive because you can’t think of anything inventive to do when he’s burning a hole right through your stomach with his fingertips alone. It’s too much, it sears through you from the centre of your spine and spirals out, static and humming and you try to arch away out of sheer instinct but his touch follows, cages you back until your hips have no where to go other than forward and back into his unyielding touch. Your train of thought splinters, and you know you’re devolving into another string of _yes, yes, right there, gonna cum, Mando— gonna—_

“You said I made you cum so hard that you lost feeling in your leg.” Mando continues, his voice tight in his throat despite the way he manages to maintain that fucking lazily amused candour of his words. “You asked if I wanted to see you do it again.”

He sounds the same, he sounds the same and different and when he speaks again you _hear_ the smirk in his voice, the one you can never see, but the one you _feel_ when the corner of his lips tug upwards as he presses them against your neck and speaks, dragging and unrushed, lingering on every word: “I do. I want to see you cum so hard you feel me in every step. Every time you sit down in the cockpit. Every time you lay in this cot without me. I want you to _feel me._ ”

Oh, _fuck you, Mando. Fuck you, fuck, fuck—_

His fingers push hard into your clit, sweeping one final hard circle, and you cum so hard that you swear your ears ring. You don’t even think you hear your own choked up cries as he drags you through it until you’re nothing but a series of trembling aftershocks and voiceless pants.

But he doesn’t stop. _Maker_ , he doesn’t stop and your body isn’t coming down the way you expect it. Everything winds tight again, but you don’t think they had ever even relaxed to begin with.

“ _Mando_ — _oh!”_

His name slurs into an exclamation that’s dressed with the note of a question because you don’t know _how_ he’s pulling you higher so fucking quickly. His fingers drag down through your folds, wetting themselves with the evidence of your orgasm, and the switch from your clit to your hole gives only a moment’s reprieve before he slots his fingers back against that bundle of nerves and works them faster than he did before. Your thighs clench and you try to curl your knees but they bump painfully into the metal wall of the cubby. There’s no where to go— not forward, not backward, and not with the way he’s holding your head against a soft spot between all that beskar. You just have to lay there and take it until he decides he’s had enough.

When he speaks again his mouth is back at your ear. You shiver hard, and his voice is commanding and familiar, all Mandalore in its discipline but human in the strain that pulls effortfully at his words. Somewhere in the pleasure that softens your brain to emotional mush, you recognize that the Mandalorians could train him to measure his voice, but the voice that speaks in that Mandalorian way was not trained by the Mandalorians, was not forged in those fires. That was _his_ voice. His voice that grew with him, deepened as he grew older, and hardened with disuse.

So, when he speaks again, that mouth at your ear, you’re thankful for the hand that covers your eyes because you don’t want him to see the tears forming.

“One more.”

The voice makes you sob with sheer pleasure, razing through the dark and coming down like a fist that clenches your floor muscles so tight and desperate for anything to fill the void, but all you have is the voice and you listen close. You listen close because you’re not sure if this is going to be a common thing now, or if the helmet will be back firmly in place when he’s done with you here and he choses not to run the risk of pulling this stunt again. So you listen when he talks.

“I know you have another in you.”

You nod frantically behind the control of his palm because you’re already there. It’s white hot scorching across your spine and you’re so fucking _empty_ that you don’t even think about the jarring size of him when you blindly squeeze his cock and arch your spine. You curse the height difference that tragically misaligns your hips.

“Please, Mando—,” you choke out, swallowing down a lungful of stale cabin air, “I need you— inside, please, let me feel you, please—”

The words sound pathetic in your ears but it’s the only thing you can string together with some semblance of knowledge when you’re two second away from losing your fucking mind.

“No.”

The word pierces you and the tears that collect in the grooves of his gloves soak your skin. The word isn’t blunt, he hums it at your ear and you’ve heard him say that word to you countless times — one short syllable that holds heavy on on his tongue, considers in his mouth, and then expels with a soft force that either compels you to obey or disobey.

Typically, you go for the latter, but he follows the rejection with a softer recourse.

“Not yet.” He drawls, “Not until you’re wet enough.”

You sob, once for the sentiment, and then again when he rolls your clit with three quick upward strokes that hits your nerves raw. You cum again and it’s wet and burning with that damp, heavy heat that soaks your inner thighs and jolts your upper body forward with the spasming of your muscles.

You’re still cresting, still cumming, when he stuffs one of his fingers deep into your cunt. The weak wail that pulls from your lungs echoes low and desperate in the narrow chamber, punctuated by softer, breathier gasps as he curls his finger into the fevered heat that swells there.

The wet squelching of your pussy is obscene to your ears, a sound that shouldn’t exist inside the Razor Crest’s walls or this bunk built for one. His finger drag and press and he is aimless in this pursuit, unrushed as he stretches his fingers just slightly. You’re tight — the tightest thing he thinks he’s ever stuck his fingers or his cock into, granted that list was not very long and seldom as enjoyable — and you take his fingers with relative ease, but it’s the soft wince, the thoughtless ‘ow’, when he inserts a second that pierces the air too clearly for his uncovered ears to miss that gives him pause.

Your muscles clench and there’s little room for him to even part his fingers to attempt to stretch you open. He draws his fingers out slow and your cunt complains the whole way through, and your whining mouth echos the sentiment.

It amazes him that you still want him, even though it’s clear you struggle to take him. For one selfish moment, he truly wonders if this really was a _him_ problem.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because you were too tight, too sore, and by the way he’s mindlessly fucking himself between your lower back and his own armour, he doesn’t have the stamina to try to make this work without hurting you any more.

His fingers pull away from your cunt, dragging themselves wetly across your stomach before he brushes your lifeless hand off his dick.

“I’m going to take my hand off of your eyes,” he states in that matter-of-factly way that you cling to when there’s little else to ground you in the darkness. You swallow dryly, trying to wrap your head around what that means. Your lips barely manage to part around the shaky concern you want to raise before he continues. That gloved hand presses down over your eyes to punctuate his next point, “You’ll keep them closed. If you open them, if you try to look, I’ll stop. Understood?”

You don’t want to know what he means by _stop._

You nod, slower this time to show him that you’ve heard him through the humming static fuzzing your brain. He feels your brow furrow with the effort of keeping your eyes pressed shut.

“I won’t look. I’ll keep— keep my eyes closed. Promise.”

The pressure over your eyes releases, and you squeeze your eyes shut even tighter when the darkness lightens behind your eyelids.

You feel him shift and you desperately fight the natural urge to peek when you register his hand reaching over your body. A piece of heavy fabric hits the beskar helmet with a dull _thwunk._ When he curls the arm that your head had been resting on around your torso again, you realize he’s taken off his other glove.

“Keep them closed,” he reminds, just as firm, but softer this time. He waits for you to nod, a quick and emphatic movement, before he curls his fingers over the angle of your jaw. He begins to tilt your head, turning your face dangerously towards him as he puts his weight on his elbow and leans over you.

You could open your eyes — accidentally even — and he would be there. What would you find? Brown eyes that are too soft for a man made of beskar and frayed parts? Dark hair, pressed flat from the helmet that stares sightlessly beside your head?

Your hand trembles when you lift your hand to touch him. You hesitate.

“Can I touch you?”

You figure you should ask, even though you don’t think touching his face is against the rules of the Mandalore creed. He’s quiet for a moment, almost like he’s running down the rulebook in his head, before finally conceding.

“Yes.”

The sound yearns in his throat, catching with a hesitant restraint that makes your heart ache. Slowly, you bring your fingers to where you imagine his cheek to be. Your fingertips meet the side of his ear instead, and you pause there for a minute.

You feel him tense at your touch, just a moment of surprise until he softens like a cat in the sun. 

A slow smile tugs at your lips, drawing your palm down until you feel his stubble scratching into your palm, just the way it had scratched against your shoulder while you slept. He holds still as you trace your thumb over his skin, leans into it even. When was the last time someone had touched him here? The significance, the _trust_ of it, it collects in the back of your voice box and constricts.

You trace your thumb over his bottom lip — full and pouting and cracked in spots. You lick your lips and feel his mouth move just as you also begin to speak.

“Can I kiss you?”

The low bass of his voice meets the high tremble of your own and you both pause.

He makes a soft noise. One you’ve heard a billion times before — something between a scoff and a chuckle and you’ve always presumed the latter, but now you can _hear it._ The modulator isn’t there to warp low the high note of amusement.

He doesn’t get to finish the sound before you’re pulling him in. Your thumb guides you to his mouth, the digit briefly catching between your lips as you kiss him for the first time. It easy to keep your eyes closed like this, easy to want to sense nothing other than his mouth catching against your lower lip. You moan when his hand drifts from your jaw to your throat, a soft little inhale that parts your mouth.

The Mandalorian takes the opportunity to drag his tongue against the roof of your mouth and you forget how to breathe entirely.

You want to relax, open your mouth and let him taste you until he’s etched it into his memory, but the tension settling across your forehead from keeping your eyes desperately wrenched shut is making it a little hard to fully submit. You don’t want to fail him— truly, spectacularly, fucking fail him— by forgetting, by letting your eyelids relax and slip open.

You whimper softly, feeling the way his jaw slackens against your open palm as he slips his tongue into your mouth again. His nose brushes up against your cheek and you swear by the Maker it’s a torture of the worst kind — to have him so close, to taste him and hold him and know that the helmet’s return is inevitable. That this man, so soft and warm with stubble that scratches and a dry pouty lips, is going to once again become that helmet and the beskar and all the things that made him the Mandalorian.

It must be torture for him too, because he hesitates to pull away. He kisses you three more times, soft and chaste, along the curve of your mouth. He holds there for a moment, his exhales tickling your skin as you breathe him in.

You realize that he’s savouring it.

Both of you are quiet and, fuck, you need to stop the moment. You need to pump the e-brakes because the tension swelling in your voice box is a dead giveaway that the waterworks are coming and you’d rather jump out of the Razor Crest mid-hyperspace before you let the Mandalorian see you cry for any other reason than having made you cum too hard. You can’t think of anything smart to say, something so outrageous that he scoffs at you and pulls away, but your snark clearly still playing catch up to the rest of your brain.

Instead, you rock your hips back again, wriggling yourself until you feel the heavy underside of his cock drag against your lower back. Pre-cum smears across the valley of your spine and you shake your ass against the spot where his thigh plates end and the coarse material of his pants begins.

The Mandalorian gets the hint.

His hand leaves your throat, reaching around your body and over your breasts again. This time, he wraps his other arm around your waist and begins hauling your torso further up in his arms. Even in the small space he moves you with ease, especially without the concern of waking you up.

Your knees bump into the walls, and you hear the beskar clatter against itself as he settles your hips at the right height. Vaguely, your ear also registers a hard _thunk,_ followed by a low exclaim, and you think he must have bumped his head on the back wall of the cubby. He only expresses his irritation by grabbing a handful of your right breast, his fingers digging a little harder into the violent bruise than you think he means to.

You think of a stupid comment to make about needing the helmet but the taunt dies on your tongue when he reaches between your bodies and drags the swollen head of his cock across the cleft of your ass. He slots himself against the seam of cunt, soft and hot and still messily slick from the Mandalorian’s handiwork.

Your body tenses up. You wish it didn’t, but it does, and you squeeze your eyes shut and keep your head forward. He feels your fingers reach up, one hand grasping the sleeve of his shirt at the crook of his elbow, and the other finding purchase over his wrist after accidentally flitting over the cool beskar of his vambrace’s control panel.

You’re bracing for impact and the Mandalorian… watches. He holds there, watching the way your brows twitch as he lazily parts you with his cock, his fingers holding himself at just the right angle to simply glide through your exposed lips from behind. You hide your face and muffle the moan down into his armoured arm when he brushes up against your oversensitive clit. He pulls back, sinks himself lower until his cock catches at your entrance.

“I’ll go slow,” Mando offers tightly, his breaths deep and unsteady and it pushes his beskar into your back rhythmically, “Is that okay?”

He feels you nod quickly against the crook of his arm, but it’s not enough.

He makes a point of pressing in further, hardly opening you up at all, “Say it.”

“Yes!” You burst out, still nodding quickly in his arms. You swear the anticipation is worse than the act of him tearing into you. “Yes, Mando— _Maker_ , _fuck me however you want— ah!”_

You don’t get to finish that request, and you eat the meaning of all those words the second he begins to stretch you open on his cock. He moans, a heavy sound that sends a shiver down your spine as he pushes himself up into your tight heat.

Fuck.

_Oh fuck._

_“Wait—wait, Mando—”_ You finally squeak out, your hips pulling forward and away as your hand drops from his arm to grasp at his hip. He stops immediately, his breathing catching in his throat as he presses his face against the back of your shoulder. He hadn’t gone deep, nothing more than a squeeze around the swollen tip of his cock, and yet still your cunt had clamped up tighter than a miser in a Canto Bight casino.

You wrench your eyes shut but they still sting with tears and Mando must have sensed your discomfort, or felt the unrelenting friction, because he mercifully pauses with your cunt still straining to manage around his cockhead.

You were wet, undoubtably slick from the two orgasms he had worked out of you, and it might be the new position that squeezes your walls tighter than before, or the soreness, previously dull and absolutely livable, that flares to life at the sudden stretch and building friction with a deep burn that only makes you clamp up tighter.

Before you can stop him, he’s pulling out.

Mando grunts behind you, his chest tight as he squeezes you in closer and kisses his apology into your back. He abandons his pursuit, realigning himself and slipping himself between your thighs again.

“You okay?” Mando rasps, half breathless but the concern in his voice pulls at your heart.

“I’m sorry—, ” you gasp out, cunt suddenly empty again as you slump back against him, every muscle of your body relaxing from the tight pull of nerves. It had hurt the first time he fucked you, just a short stretch and the occasional pinch as you adjusted to him fucking you senseless. But this _hurt,_ strikingly so _._

You start apologizing again, the words high and tight with frustrated and embarrassed tears, “It’s not you, I think I’m just— I’m not—”

“Wet enough?”

You swallow at Mando’s soft offer and shakily nod.

“We can stop. We don’t have to—” He suggests after a moment, and the thought makes you squeeze his hip and push yourself back against his arms as you shake your head. You can feel the tension still sitting in his grip, thinly veiled with his hesitant concern, but existing tight there below the surface nonetheless.

“ _No! No, please,_ ” you plead, turning your head in his arm as you blindly guess whether he’s looking at you or not. Desperation sets in and you reach down between your legs, fumbling blindly until you feel him grab your wrist and pull your hand back up to your chest. An errant tear squeezes out from the corner of your eye, disappearing into your hairline as you begin to press your thighs together, squeezing the warm flesh of your inner thigh tight against his cock. You roll your hips, pushing back into him while you hold him there. “I don’t want to stop, Mando. Please, _get me wet, fuck, anything— just please don’t stop_.”

There’s a pregnant pause. A long moment when all you hear is Mando’s unsteady breathing. You don’t know if he’s trying to compose himself, build his resistance to deny your or if he’s trying his hardest not to just push you down into the cot and fuck you — soreness be damned.

“Straighten your legs.”

The abrupt sound of his haggard voice is just as surprising as the quiet demand he issues.

“Wh-what?”

His hand leaves your waist, and you jump again when an open palm comes down abruptly against the side of your leg. You squeak at the impact, the smack hard enough to startle your thoughts into high gear. 

“I said, _straighten your legs._ ”

There it is again, that Mandalorian demand. This time it merges with that distinct voice that’s all _him._ An odd vocal space where the two become one, where neither is exclusive of the other. It reminds you of hearing his voice echoing clearly through both the modulator and beneath the helmet — the same man, but _different._

You push the thoughts to the back of your head — not willing to test another spank out of him because you doubt the next would be any gentler — and straighten out your knees until your legs stick out like a Father in gunship headlights.

Your toes barely clear the edge of the cot and your heel kicks back accidentally against the one spot on his shin that’s only covered by the leg of his pants. Oddly, it’s the moment’s contact of your bare foot against his pants leg that brings your attention to just how _naked_ you were, and how completely fucking covered he was.

“Good girl.” He praises, the word drawing long and low in his throat and you swear you’d do anything he wanted so long as he kept praising you like that. He opens his palm against your thigh, arching a slow upward path over your hips and down to your ass. Behind your shoulder, his head tilts downwards and his hair shifts against your back. You blush at the knowledge that he’s looking at you, but it doesn’t register what he’s looking _at_ until he gropes you there, squeezes your right asscheek and the deep-muscle pain flares with familiarity.

Your breath hitches as he massages his fingers into your bruised bottom, fingers kneading deep into the plump flesh and it _hurts_ but, fuck, that only makes you want him to press harder. You wonder if they’re bad — the ugly type that wanes yellow after a day or so. Based on the way he’s manhandling you now, you wouldn’t be surprised if they bruise worse in the coming days.

His thumb digs down into a particular bruise, presses into the knot of a muscle, and just like that he’s got you panting again. Your shoulders hitch, fingers fisting into his sleeve as you muffle a mewl into the crook of his elbow. Wickedly, he catches your hardened nipple between the lengths of two fingers and begins manipulating your equally bruised breast.

Tears sting at your eyes again, strung out, insolent tears that clump together your eyelashes as you squeeze your eyes shut. If the Mandalorian notices the tears saturating your eyelids, he does not mention it — he’s fucked you enough times to know that you cry if he makes you cum hard enough. His cock jumps, hard and heavy and twitching eagerly when he takes himself in his hand again.

“Arch your back.” He instructs, and you do as he tells you without the need for a second smack.

You do your best with the room you’re given, granted the arm locking down tight over your upper chest makes it a little hard to curve your back, but you manage to jut your hips out. You present yourself to him anxiously, and he rewards your obedience with the easy glide of his cock between your pressed thighs. He nestles himself up close enough that every drag of his hips pushes his cock through your folds, letting your cum and slick coat him with every pass.

A little, hapless whine tumbles from your lips as he splits you there, driving the head of him hard against your clit at the end of his thrusts. Your body heaves eagerly at the contact that’s _almost_ enough, _almost—_

A hand comes down over your breast, sharp and stinging before he captures it in his broad palm, dulling the ache. You yelp at the impact, and he knows that _this_ is the type of hurt you like. He hears it when your yelp falls into a wrecked moan, he feels it when your hips roll faster and squeeze your thighs tighter.

“Do you like this?” He speaks, “Rubbing your cunt over my cock?”

You don’t think, the movement is senseless as you wriggle your wrist free of Mando’s grip and bury your hand between your thighs before he can grab you again. His thrusts stutter when he feels your dainty fingers cupping under your cunt, directing his thrusts until every single one of them hit your clit directly. He feels your head, nodding vigorously against his arm as he holds you to his beskar.

“Say it.”

Mando swears he feels your cunt dribble wetly against his cock when he parts through your folds again, rocking up into your clit until he feels the muscle of your thighs shake against his armour with the strain of being held together.

“Ma-maker, _yes!_ Yes, _f-fuck, faster, Mando._ Please _, fuck me faster. I’m—”_

You whimper his name. Once, then again, and then it’s all that you can manage to fucking say because your walls are clenching down around _nothing_ again and your clit _aches_ with debilitating pleasure as he picks up his pace. Mando digs his fingers bruisingly hard into the delicate meat of your thighs, guiding your thrusts to meet his as your fingers drag over the underside of his cock.

He’s slick with your wetness, more so than he had been before. It coats your thighs and you know you feel it dribbling over the side of your thigh. The sound of the Mandalorian’s cock slipping up between your thighs is obscene, almost as debauched as the sweet, blushing girl fucking herself into her third orgasm with only the heavy drag of his cock against her clit to sate her.

“Fuck, M-mando, _put it in_ , n-need you inside me—”

He could hear the tears in your voice then, the high clutch of your throat that hitches your voice so prettily. His voice is strained when he speaks, enunciated with each messy thrust against your ass.

“Not yet.”

You cry out at the rejection, the sound quickly cutting short when you feel his hand come down against your tits again. It stings worse this time and your head falls back into the spot between his curled arm and his chest. The next time his cock ruts into your swollen clit you swear you forget how to fucking breathe. The only thought in your hear echoes out of your mouth because you don’t think you have the full wherewithal to keep it to yourself. “ _‘m gonna cu-cum, Mando.”_

The hand that had come down twice over your breast curls up over your throat, his fingers spreading across the base of your jaw and holding your head firmly facing away towards the metal wall of the cubby. Your grasp at the arm, fingers clutching at the edges of the beskar vambrace. His mouth is at your ear then, the stubble of his chin scratching the spot just beneath your earlobe and when he speaks you think it’s the deepest you’ve ever heard his fucking voice go.

“Yeah? Good.”

Every muscle in your body seizes up tight, unbelievably, devastatingly _tight, and—_

He starts to fucking push into you.

Your orgasm hits you _hard._ The force of it knocks the wind out of you, punches the air right out of your lungs and your scream doesn’t even catch the sound it needs in your vocal cords to be fucking audible. He tears the orgasm out of you and the aching soreness is fucking inconsequential.

He doesn’t go any further than he did before, pushing the head of his cock just far enough to catch in your squeezing muscles. He stops there, goes no further, and your brain is fried and nothing makes much sense anymore.

Especially not when he starts jacking himself off with just the tip pressing into you.

His breathing is ragged in your ear, hard and stuttering and you know he’s chasing after you. He squeezes his fist around his length and you take the liberty of dragging your hand up behind you, finding his mused hair. You drag your nails against his scalp and start talking.

“P-please, cum, Mando. Cum inside me, _cum inside me_ , I want you to— _I want you to.”_

He’s cumming then, right as you whine out your last helpless plea. His cum splatters messily against your cunt, his cock too shallowly wedged into you that it overflows and seeps into a very visible mess.

You moan at the sensation but blush darkly at the thought of him having cum _on_ your pussy, rather than inside of it. You don’t get to dwell on it very long. Not when he’s gripping your hip and fucking working himself into you.

Your back curves and your jaw hangs loose at the sudden stretch — the one you had been begging for for who knows how long he’s had you in this cramped little cot. He moans with you, cursing your name as your body slackens and tightens and sucks him in. He slips in easily; easier than before.

It’s only then that it registers, fleetingly, that there’s…. A lot more lubrication helping him along. He pushes and pushes, inching through your walls until he feels your spine curve and your hips widen as he _finally_ bottoms out inside of you.

It still hurts; that easy burn that you know is going to put a severe damper on things for the next week, but it’s so fucking worth it just to have him filling you this completely. Your muscles ache, begging for just a moment to slacken, but they seize up tight with errant want the minute the Mandalorian gives a shallow thrust. His hand drops down flat against your lower stomach, pulling you back against his hips, before burying themselves down between your cum-stained thighs.

“Open your legs.”

His demand is breathless and wrecked and it takes too long for your shaking limbs to respond, clearly, because he knocks your legs open with his knee before grabbing your thigh and spreading it over his waist. It’s oddly comfortable, in spite of the tight situation. The position opens you wide to the cold air of the ship but the temperature is the last thing you dwell on when he begins to circle your clit with firm, slow swipes of his fingers.

He doesn’t care when his fingers meet the mess he made over your pussy. He pushes his fingers through it, gathering it on the pads of his fingers.

The noise you make is unreal when he pushes those fingers up against your clit one more time.


End file.
